Precautionary Tales
by moonlighten
Summary: July, 2011: Scotland and England haven't fought using magic for centuries. This is why. In Progress. Part 62 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

**8th July, 2011; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
Occasionally, Wales indulged in daydreams where he sold all his belongings, moved as far away from the UK as it was possible to get and, most importantly, never saw any of his family ever again. Attractive as the fantasy might be at times, he knew he would never actually want to live it, partly due to the fact that he began to miss his country even when he was halfway across the Severn Bridge, but mostly because, even though they infuriated him beyond reason more often than was probably healthy, he loved his siblings.

He reminded himself of this repeatedly as he edged around the wreckage of his living room: _I love my brothers. I love my brothers. I love –  
_  
He stepped on something which crunched ominously. "Jesus Christ, _Lloegr_, is that my telly?" He lifted one foot and glanced down. "It is. It's my fucking telly. What the hell happened?"

England blinked slowly at him. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure? You destroy my house and you're not sure?" Wales was aware he was near-screaming the words, but given that there were burn marks scorched on three of his walls, his curtains were in tatters, and his carpet was littered with pieces of glass and television innards, he couldn't exactly find it within himself to care about modulating his tone. "Bloody hell, I leave the two of you alone for ten minutes, and…"

It only occurred to Wales in that moment and with those words that he couldn't see Scotland anywhere. "Where _is_ _Yr Alban_, _Lloegr_?"

"He's…" England looked at his shoes, his (trembling) hands, and then, finally, sidelong at Wales. "There may have been a slight accident."

"Yes, I had noticed. What sort of accident?"

"Magical. We had a… minor disagreement whilst you were out and, well." He waved his hand towards Wales' sofa, which had miraculously escaped with only minor singeing.

England and Scotland's magical talents had always been strongest in the field of hexes, and they had spent much of their youth cursing each other with various unpleasant ailments, animal heads, and the like. It had been many centuries since they'd last deployed magic in one of their fights, however, and England's skill had increased so much in the intervening years that there was no telling what Wales might find.

Worryingly, there was nothing behind the sofa save for Scotland's clothes scattered amongst a small pile of cushions. "Fucking hell," Wales groaned, "I think you might have blown him up."

"I did not," England sounded indignant, as though it were something he would never dream of doing and was shocked at the very suggestion. "I just –"

Wales shushed him as the pile began to shift. "Actually, you might just have turned him into a rat or something again." He leant further over the back of the sofa and gingerly lifted Scotland's jeans. Bright green eyes stared up at him from beneath them. "Oh. Shit."

"What? What is it? Is he a rat?"

"Not so much," Wales said, pushing the rest of the clothes and clothes aside so he could grab hold of his brother's arm and pull him to his feet. "You seem to have made him tiny."

"I shrunk him?" England sounded less anxious and more fascinated now. And a little smug. "That's an incredibly complex spell and yet I managed to cast it accidentally? That's –"

"No, you haven't shrunk him." Wales sighed. "Just turned him into a kid."

A kid who, if he were human and Wales had to guess, would be no older than six or seven, and almost lost in a dark blue T-shirt which now hung down to his ankles

"Really?" England appeared at Wales shoulder almost instantaneously, peering down Scotland. "Fuck," he breathed shakily, "I don't think I can remember him ever being that small before."

At the sound of England's voice, Scotland began to scowl and his little hands made little fists. It was, Wales thought, strangely adorable.

"You were just even smaller, that's all. Funnily enough, he didn't spring into being at six foot two." Strangely adorable or not, Wales had no desire to live through his brother's childhood, and more particularly, his adolescence, a second time around. "Can you reverse the spell?" he asked.

England shook his head. "I don't think so. It should wear off on its own in a couple of days or so, though. It wasn't _that_ strong."

It wasn't what Wales had hoped to hear, but he thought it didn't sound as arduous a prospect as it could have been, nevertheless.  
-

* * *

-  
"The evil little shit just bit me," England snarled as he backed away from Scotland's hiding place again, this time clutching his knee. He'd already been hobbling somewhat due to a well-aimed head-butt to his vital regions and had presumably presented an easy target. "If I ever manage to catch him, I'm going to kill him."

"Maybe I should try talking to him," Wales suggested. "I'm good with kids."

"You mean you're a complete pushover. You just let them do whatever the hell they want, Wales. They might well _like _you because of it, but that hardly makes you _good _with them."

"Nevertheless," Wales said, taking the high road and choosing to ignore the dig, "sometimes you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. You're probably scaring him with all the shouting and swearing."

"Oh, I don't think he's scared, I think he's just being obstinate. No doubt simply because it's _me _asking him to do something. The more things change, et cetera, et cetera." England threw his hands up, obviously admitting defeat for the moment. "Go on then, knock yourself out."

Scotland had managed to squeeze himself into the tiny gap between two of Wales' bookcases and the corner of the room, arms held tight against his side and knees folded up around his ears. His eyes narrowed, glittering dangerously, when Wales knelt down in front of him, but he didn't seem quite so tense, so ready to attack, as he had when England had done the same.

Wales smiled encouragingly, and pitched his voice low and soothing as he said, "Please, you've got to come out."

Scotland stared back at him silently.

"You can't stay there all day."

Silence.

"You've missed two meals already, you must be hungry. Or need the loo, at least. Please don't piss on my carpet, _Yr Alban._ _Lloegr's_ made enough of a mess of it as it is."

When his heartfelt plea did not provoke even the smallest of reactions in his brother, not the slightest twitch of his mouth or change in his posture, Wales began to suspect that they might have been coming at this from the wrong angle all along. "_Alba_?" he said experimentally.

Scotland's eyebrows shot upwards and the combative light in his eyes dimmed to something softer, almost curious.

"Shit," England said, "I didn't just make his body younger, did I."

"Apparently not. How much _Gàidhlig _do you know nowadays?"

England hummed quietly as he thought the question over. "Not much," he admitted eventually. "And you?"

"A little more, probably," Wales said, because he suspected England's 'not much' equated to 'could probably order a beer and ask directions to the nearest pub', judging by the amount of Welsh he seemed to have retained. "But I'm certainly not fluent. I'm not even sure that he'd have used _Gàidhlig _allthat much himself back… Back in whatever year it was when he was this size."

Still, it didn't hurt to try something simple. Wales pointed to Scotland, back towards England, and then finally laid his hand against his own chest. "_Bràithrean_."

Scotland's eyebrows inched a little higher.

"_Cymru_," Wales continued, "_agus_…" He waved his hand towards England again, floundering a little. "_Agus_… Jesus, _Lloegr_, what the hell was your name back then?"

England made a rumbling sound of annoyance, almost a growl. "I can't fucking remember; I've had so bloody many. Best just go with Albion, I suppose."

Wales nodded and said, "_Cymru agus_ Albion."

Scotland didn't smile so much as stop scowling quite as hard as he had been doing before, and shuffled forward slightly, coming close enough that Wales could probably touch him without even extending his arm to its furthest reach. Wales was reluctant to try, however, as he had no desire to repeat England's earlier mistake and perhaps have his fingers chewed off for his trouble.

"Well, that's fantastic, Wales." England snorted derisively. "At this rate, it'll be another couple of hours before he finally wriggles his way out of there. I hope your _Gàidhlig _is up to it."  
-

* * *

-  
In the end, it only took twenty minutes. And then another twenty to gently persuade Scotland that neither the fridge nor the cooker were likely to attack him and it was safe to enter the kitchen.

Eventually, Wales managed to get him seated at the kitchen table with a plate of bread and cheese in front of him, which apparently passed muster as it was quickly devoured instead of subjected to several minutes of intense, mistrustful scrutiny.

"I guess you like that, then?" Wales asked him, in Welsh because he couldn't quite recall the _Gàidhlig _for it and Scotland seemed unwilling to talk to him whatever language he used, anyway.

Scotland's rounded cheeks dimpled deeply when he grinned up at Wales, something which made Wales want to pinch them or maybe ruffle his hair. He fought down the urge, however, as there was every likelihood that Scotland wouldn't take kindly to it now, and the memory of it would embarrass them both when he returned to his proper age.

Wales distracted himself by clearing up the crumbs of bread and cheese that Scotland had manage to scatter all over the floor – if he thought Scotland could comprehend what he said, he would have teased him that his table manners seemed unchanged, if nothing else – until England came storming back from his phone call with Ireland.

"That was about as much use as a chocolate fucking teapot. She's got no idea how to reverse it, either," he said, slamming Wales' phone back in its base unit so hard that Wales was surprised that it didn't crack down the middle.

He then stomped across the kitchen and threw himself onto one of the chairs opposite Scotland, glowering at nothing in particular as was his wont when the world refused to work the way he wanted it to. Scotland flinched away from him, picking up his plate and moving it onto his lap as though he were afraid that England might try and steal his food.

England chuckled. "He probably doesn't even understand who I am, and yet he still doesn't like me," he observed, his off-hand tone completely at odds with the defeated slump of his shoulders.

"As I said before, it's probably just the shouting he doesn't like," Wales said, patting England's bowed back reassuringly, and hoping he didn't sound as though he were lying.  
-

* * *

-  
Getting Scotland to go to bed was even more of a struggle than getting him to eat.

He refused to remove the blue T-shirt, even though he kept tangling his feet in the hem, so a bath was out of the question despite the butter he'd somehow managed to smear all over his face and some of his hair. England's attempt to brush his teeth was short-lived, aborted when Scotland bit his arm and refused to let go until the toothbrush was safely hidden away again.

After that, it fell to Wales alone to convince Scotland that the bed in the smaller of his two spare bedrooms was safe to sleep in after England abdicated all further responsibility for their brother by means of locking himself in the larger one and refusing to come out.

Perhaps it was the duvet cover, Wales mused when Scotland stubbornly shook his head yet again. Wales didn't want to throw it out because it had been the first joint present he and Cerys received after she moved in with him, but her mum and Scotland's – and, truth be told, Wales and Cerys' too, though they'd acted suitably appreciative at the time – tastes couldn't be more divergent, and he took the piss whenever he saw it.

Wales ran his hand over the chintzy, frilled monstrosity to prove that it wouldn't bite. "It's perfectly safe," he said in English, Welsh, and after slight pause to ransack the shadowed recesses of his memory, _Gàidhlig _and even _Gaeilge_ too for good measure.

Scotland, however, remained rooted to the spot.

"Look, I'll show you," Wales said, deciding that a further practical demonstration was probably a good step forward. He kicked off his slippers and slipped into the bed, making an exaggerated groan of pleasure as he laid down. "It really is safe, and I promise you'll never have slept in a bed this comfortable before."

For a moment or two, Scotland simply watched Wales' face carefully, as though waiting for any signs of discomfort which might suggest he were in the process of being slowly suffocated by the duvet. Then, apparently satisfied that his life wasn't likely to be forfeit if he complied, he trotted across the bedroom and leapt into the bed beside Wales.

"See," Wales said, patting him gingerly on the top of his sticky head, "you'll be fine."

When Wales started to get up, however, Scotland suddenly grabbed hold of him, wrapping his arms around Wales' neck, forehead pressed hard against his collarbone.

"_Yr Alban_… _Alba_, I have to get up."

Scotland clearly had no intention of letting his brother leave, his grip tightening incrementally every time Wales moved, to the point where Wales found it difficult to breathe. When he finally gave up and relaxed, Scotland did too, rolling away to sprawl spread-eagled on his back.

Wales grumbled his deep displeasure under his breath as he rearranged the pillows and tried to make himself comfortable. He didn't think he'd ever had a decent night's sleep when he'd been forced by circumstance to share a bed with Scotland. If Scotland wasn't hitting him deliberately to wake him up because he was snoring, then he'd be hitting anything within striking distance as punched, kicked and elbowed his way through what must be very violent dreams.

Wales couldn't remember whether Scotland had had such dreams as a child, however, and perhaps he'd be lucky enough that they were something which had only started to occur as Scotland grew older.  
-

* * *

-  
He wasn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**9th July, 2011; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
Wales was already sitting at the kitchen table when England went down for breakfast the next morning. He looked as though he hadn't had a wink of sleep: shadowy circles under his reddened eyes, and body gently swaying as though it was only precariously balanced on a razor-thin barrier between consciousness and sleep.

There was also, England noticed as he took the seat next to his brother with a much-needed cup of tea, a bruise darkening one of his cheeks. Clearly, Scotland had protested going to bed just as violently as he had being subjected to basic hygiene measures, and England felt a small pang of guilt for abandoning Wales to deal with Scotland on his own. It was only a very small pang of guilt, however – little more than a twinge, really – because he knew if he hadn't removed himself from the situation when he had, he might have done something he regretted.

Wales caught him looking, and smiled wanly. "Turns out he _has _always been a restless sleeper. I really don't know how _Ffrainc _copes with it. I'm surprised he doesn't insist on separate beds."

Some tiny, twisted part of England's brain insisted upon suggesting that perhaps the frog liked that sort of thing, but the rational majority quickly leapt on that traitorous stray thought and smothered it before it could turn his stomach more than it already had.

"You're up early," he said, to curtail any further speculation on Scotland's sleeping arrangements on either of their parts.

Wales exhaled a ragged breath that might have been laughter if he didn't clearly lack the energy for it. "Yeah, apparently that's never changed, either. He always has to try and beat the birds at their own game."

"And where is he now?" England asked, belatedly realising that he had neither seen nor heard any sign of Scotland since he got up. He didn't bother to ask whether or not the spell had worn off overnight because, if it had, his brother certainly wouldn't have allowed him the much-needed lie in he'd just enjoyed before exacting his revenge.

"He's out in the garden, poking around in my flower beds looking for bugs or stones or something. You know what he's like. I just had to get him out of the house for a while."

"Been having problems?" England felt that tiny twinge again, hitching at the base of his ribs, but it was still easy enough to ignore.

Wales groaned, long and heartfelt. "It took me almost an hour to find something he'd actually eat. The way he looked at everything I put in front of him, you'd think I was trying to persuade him to try and eat rocks or something. Cereal, apparently, is particularly suspect. Then when I tried to get him to change out of that damn T-shirt, he threw another paddy and went and hid behind my bookcases again. I can't remember him being this… temperamental before."

England rolled his eyes, thinking that Wales' memory was spectacularly selective. Scotland might not have 'thrown paddies' when he was a child the first time around, but that was probably because England and Wales were small enough then themselves for him to take his frustrations out on without fear of retribution. England, unlike Wales, it appeared, had carefully stored away every punch, slap, and cuff he'd ever received from his brother so that he could be sure to repay them in kind the moment he grew strong enough to do so. That day had come and gone centuries ago, but England had never forgotten; not a single detail.

Before England could correct Wales' misapprehensions, however, the doorbell rang.

Wales shrugged when England looked at him questioningly, and said, "I'm not expecting anyone." He frowned, and quickly glanced over his shoulder towards the window which overlooked his garden. "And it doesn't look like Scotland's off terrorising the neighbours or anything." The frown deepened. "Though he has uprooted my geraniums."

The doorbell rang again, and Wales started to rise to his feet with obvious reluctance. His movements were slow, unsteady, and England's twinge bypassed pang completely and headed straight on toward a sharp stab of pity mixed with a soupcon of self-recrimination.

"I'll answer it," England said, earning himself a grateful smile which lessened the sting somewhat.  
-

* * *

-  
England tried to slam the front door closed as soon as he recognised their visitor, but France, sneaky bastard that he was, managed to slip one foot across the threshold, catching it before it could close completely.

"What the hell are you doing here?" England snarled. "Piss off before I break every bone in your foot."

"I merely want to see Scotland, _Angleterre_." France bestowed one of the most insipid, ingratiating smiles in his repertoire upon England through the narrow gap between door and jamb. "I heard he had an unusual accident."

England wondered if it was Ireland or Wales who told France, and whether or not they'd also informed him that said accident had been England's fault. That possibility added a certain amount of urgency to his reply. "He's fine. Go away."

"_Irlande _said it was quite serious," France insisted, still not moving.

Well, that was one mystery solved. "She was exaggerating. Goodbye, France, I'll be sure to let him know you called round."

"_Ffrainc_?" Wales' voice drifted along the hallway, closely followed by the tired shuffle of his footsteps.

"_Cymru_," France called back, voice smooth and over-sweet. England leant more of his weight against the door in response, and the rest of France's words came out a little strained-sounding. "I've come to visit your brother."

"That's…" The footsteps halted, and one of Wales' hands curled around the curve of England's shoulder. "For fuck's sake, let him come in, _Lloegr_."

England reluctantly relented, if only to prevent the tussle that the slow tightening of Wales' fingers was promising. It was, at the end of the day, Wales' house, and he had the right to invite whomever he wished into it, no matter how misguided his choices might be.

Apart from a few years back in the early eighteenth century when he somehow found the sense to give him as wide a berth as he deserved, Wales has always been unnaturally fond of France for reasons that England had never been able to fathom. That fondness seemed to have blossomed to ridiculous levels ever since Wales had fallen in love again, something which he attributed to France's matchmaking skills, even though, as far as England could tell, all France had done was throw random nations at Wales until one of them stuck.

France breezed in as soon England stepped back from the door, all sparkling eyes and gentle words now he'd got his own way, and immediately set about getting inappropriately handsy with Wales. It was sickening, really, and England couldn't bear to watch. Another cup of tea was probably in order.  
-

* * *

-  
England was still staring into one of Wales' kitchen cupboards, struggling to make the difficult decision between Earl Grey and PG Tips, when he was suddenly engulfed in a cloud of overpoweringly flowery cologne and cigarette smoke. He sidestepped the hand he instinctually knew was headed in the direction of his waist, and spun around just in time to avoid the other which was making a beeline for his arse.

France chuckled, but didn't even try to make a second grab at England. He simply leant back against the counter a reasonable distance away, hands dropping to sit safely at his sides and eyes downcast.

It made England feel very uneasy. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

France's brow furrowed. "I'm worried about Scotland," he said, every word dripping with incredulity as though he couldn't believe that England could ever think otherwise. As though he hadn't spent centuries not giving two shits about Scotland's well-being when he wasn't directly in his line of sight. Scotland might insist things had changed on that score, but England remained unconvinced that the mindset of almost a millennium could be changed in less than two years.

Scotland had never appreciated England's concern about anything, however, especially when France was involved, so England said, "He's perfectly fine, you know; just smaller than usual," instead of even attempting a contradiction. "You needn't have bothered coming. There's nothing _you _can do to help."

"That may be so, but –"

"Sorry I took so long," Wales' voice rang out above France's, cutting short his reply. "_Someone _didn't like the idea of coming back inside the house."

France's head snapped up as Wales entered the kitchen, Scotland following at his heels and clearly not happy at the arrangement judging by the way he was dragging his feet and glaring sullenly at Wales' back.

"_Alba_," Wales said as they approached, "_seo an Fhraing_."

Scotland's steps slowed yet further until he came to a halt a few feet in front of France, and he eyed him with what England thought was exactly the right amount of suspicion, namely considerable.

The smile that France offered in response was not one of the ones England recognised: broad, soft and surprisingly honest-looking. "_Halò_,_ Alba_," he said, crouching down so his eyes were level with Scotland's.

Scotland stared back, body drawn taut like a bow string; all hard straight lines and tension. When a couple of silent minutes had ticked slowly by and Scotland still hadn't fled, France cautiously raised one hand, its back facing Scotland, as though he were trying to approach a strange dog whose temperament he wasn't sure of and expecting it to sniff. England smirked, knowing that France would likely be soon rueing the gesture considering Scotland's current temperament.

Scotland ignored the hand, however, in favour of reaching out to grab a handful of France's hair and not, to England's disappointment, in order to yank it out by its roots. Instead, he ran it around and through his fingers, seeming absolutely absorbed with it as if he'd never seen anything as fascinating before in his life, even though France's hair was much the same colour as England's own and nothing special. Despite the fact Scotland was filthy from grubbing around in the garden and covering him with dried mud, France laughed, and, after a moment, Scotland joined him, high and piping.

Wales looked a little dewy-eyed and England suddenly remembered that he needed a drink.

He bypassed the tea cupboard and went straight for the one where Wales kept his spirits.  
-

* * *

-  
Even though England would much rather have enjoyed his third glass of gin in the comfortable solitude of the living room, Wales insisted that he had to go out onto the patio and watch Scotland fawn over France, even going so far as to threaten to withhold further all further access to alcohol until he finally acquiesced.

Uncharacteristically heedless of his hitherto impeccably neat trousers and expensive-looking shoes, France had hunkered down next to Scotland on the bare soil, presumably to facilitate the delivery of the seemingly endless stream of gifts Scotland kept presenting him with. They were neatly arranged in a small pile beside him: shiny pebbles, crushed and wilting flowers, and snail shells alike. England made significant inroads into his gin with a single swallow.

"Your face'll get stuck like that if you're not careful," Wales said, nudging England's shoulder with his own.

"What the hell are you talking about?" England snapped, annoyed at the intrusion into the thoughts he very carefully wasn't having.

"I don't think you've stopped scowling since yesterday. I thought you'd be happy that Scotland's behaving himself now."

"I am, but…" England paused, uncertain of how to finish the statement without sounding completely petty.

"You're jealous," Wales supplied for him when his silence stretched a little too long, which was practically the last word England would have chosen to describe how he was feeling, albeit also, unfortunately, probably the most accurate. It had been a long time since England had openly cared about winning his brother's approval, and even longer since he'd sought it, and it was always unsettling to be reminded that some vestige of that ancient need seemed to cling on still, no matter how hard he tried to purge himself of it entirely.

"I am not," he said, nevertheless, because Wales could, and would, go about believing whatever he damn well liked, but so long as it remained unconfirmed, England still had plausible deniability on his side. "It's just… I don't understand what just happened. France waltzes in here, does absolutely sod all, and now he's Scotland's new best friend? It doesn't make any sense."

"You're hardly the best judge, are you? You can't understand why _anyone _likes _Ffrainc_."

"Had he met him already back then? Is that it? Do you think he recognised him?"

"_Yr Alban_ thought _Ffrainc_ was a girl for long enough when they were kids, so, no, I don't think he recognised him. Fucking hell, for all we know, he liked the smell of _Ffrainc_'s shampoo or something," Wales said, half laughing the words. "It's just one of those things. Don't overthink it."

"But –"

"Just drink your gin, _Lloegr_."


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm going to go and have a little lie down on the sofa," England suddenly announced. "All this sun's going to my head."

Although the sun _was_ dazzlingly bright today, and England had made a good show of squinting his eyes, puffing like a winded runner who had recently completed a marathon, and occasionally fanning his florid face, Wales thought it much more likely that it was his fourth glass of gin – filled to the brim and then guzzled down as though it were nothing more potent than water – that had gone to his head.

"Of course," he agreed placidly, because England would probably take umbrage if he didn't and it was far too nice a day to risk becoming embroiled in a thoroughly pointless argument. "Wouldn't want you to get heatstroke."

England's eyes narrowed again as he studied Wales' face, obviously searching for signs of deceit, but Wales took care to maintain his smile, and after a few encouraging nods, England must have decided that his lie had been accepted and he could retreat to the living room whilst keeping his dignity intact, because he made a swift about face and headed towards the house again.

His dignity did not survive the short flight of stone stairs leading up to Wales' back door, however. He stumbled, tripped over the topmost one, and was only saved from a face-down sprawl across Wales' kitchen floor by the awkward angle of his descent, catching his shoulder hard against the doorjamb just as his knees began to buckle.

With an ease born of centuries of honing his selective hearing, and even longer of having his concern and attempts to lend a helping hand rebuffed, Wales tuned out the virulent cursing that ensued, and after a minute or maybe ten it faded away to be replaced by the soft sibilation of slippered feet shuffling across tile.

Wales released his bottom lip from between his teeth and his held breath in a long, wearied sigh. He had no desire to return to the house himself, because, bruised and embarrassed, England would doubtless more closely resemble a velociraptor with a sore head rather than the idiomatic bear, so he scanned the garden for a distraction that might excuse his remaining outside inside instead of rushing after his brother with a cold compress and sympathy.

Scotland was diligently and, more importantly, quietly occupied with his excavation project. but France had seemingly tired of playing Scotland's cheerleader, and had moved to the far end of the flowerbed where he had seated himself cross-legged, his back leant up against the garden fence.

He was still keeping a close eye Scotland's exploits, but there was no trace of his earlier amusement at the sight remaining in his expression. He looked pensive, and distracted enough that he didn't appear to have noticed that the cigarette balanced precariously between the index and ring fingers of his right hand had burnt almost down to the filter. The ash that had fallen from it had scattered across the front of his untucked shirt, settling in deeper drifts along the gathered creases at his lap, and there was soil coating the seat of his trousers. Both things, Wales was certain, that would have appalled him on a normal day.

He seemed to sense Wales' scrutiny, and, without turning his head towards him or acknowledging his presence in any other way, patted the ground beside him in a clear request for Wales' company.

"When he was actually this age, I don't think I ever saw more of him than the very top of his head," he said in a low, slightly raspy voice as Wales sat down next to him. "He would watch _Angleterre_ and me over Rome's wall if we happened to stray close to his lands, sometimes for hours at a time, but the moment we came too near, he would throw stones at us to chase us away again."

"He used to do that to me, as well," Wales said, chuckling at the memory. It was one he very seldom revisited, and it had increasingly taken on the rosier hue of nostalgia over the intervening years. He could no longer recall if any of those projectiles had ever hit him.

"Rome and _Angleterre_ both told me he was a barbarian, and I was more than ready to believe them." France wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I never once thought that he might be a boy just like I was."

He raised his cigarette to his lips and seemed surprised to discover that nothing but the butt remained. Wales offered him another from his own packet, and they smoked together in silence for a time whilst they watched Scotland excavate small stones and then carefully line them up along the edge of the lawn, sorted by colour and size.

"He's not going to stay this way for long, is he?" France eventually asked, smoke billowing from his lips along with the words.

"I shouldn't think so," Wales said. "Transformation spells like this are usually very limited. They take a lot of energy to maintain because the body naturally tries to return its original state, and magic just isn't powerful enough to keep that at bay for long. I imagine he'll be back to himself again in a day or two at most."

France nodded in easy acceptance at that, then laughed at himself for doing so. "A couple of years ago, I would have found all of this far too ridiculous to believe. I _did_ think _Angleterre_ was ridiculous, with his all of his incantations and talking to little invisible people. Now what you're saying sounds almost sensible."

Wales laughed a little too, if only because France's self-deprecating tone seemed to demand it, but he did not find this turn towards credulity as baffling as France did.

When they were children, and their bodies were still as much illusion and force of will as flesh, magic was just as much part of France's life as it was Wales' or his siblings', and likely something about it resonates with France's memories of those earliest years, even though they might be even more muddled and opaque than Wales' own.

"I think," he began, but was interrupted by the soft, diffident pad of Scotland's approaching footsteps.

His bare feet were stained almost black, and his soil-grimed hands were cupped together and held close to his chest, as though he were carrying something he considered extremely fragile and precious.

Wales inclined his head towards them. "What have you found, _Alba_?"

Scotland ignored him, and instead extended his hands towards France, smiling shyly. His fingers then slowly unfurled to reveal the desiccated corpse of a mouse, which had no doubt been left behind by one of the stray cats who treated Wales' garden as a combined buffet and lavatory.

"Oh." France's own smile turned from indulgent to brittle in an instant. "That's..."

To Wales' astonishment, he reached out as if to take the revolting offering from Scotland, but he stopped himself just short of actually touching it, his instinctive revulsion presumably proving stronger than any desire he might have had to spare Scotland's feelings.

"That's very kind of you," he continued. "Why don't you put it with the rest? It will be safe there."

He gestured towards the nearby collection of nature's detritus that Scotland had already presented him with, and Scotland dutifully trotted off to add it to the pile. Whilst he was thus occupied, France hurriedly got to his feet, and then brushed down his trousers, retucked his shirt, and smoothed his hair until he was something approaching his normal, polished self once more.

"You must be hungry after all your hard work, _mon petit_," he said, when Scotland appeared set to return to his digging once more. "I think it's about time we had lunch."  
-

* * *

-  
Using some magic of his own that Wales wished he too had at his disposal, France not only managed to persuade Scotland to wash his face and hands before he sat down at the dining table, but created a wide array of dishes from Wales' meagre kitchen stores that all looked and smelt sufficiently appetising that Scotland didn't even hesitate before beginning to tuck into them.

With France and England pleading a lack of appetite – though Wales suspected a queasy stomach was more likely to blame in each case – there should have been more than enough food to spare to sate both Wales and Scotland's at least twice over, especially given Scotland's newly shrunken stomach. But Scotland ate with voracious, concentrated purpose, and kept brandishing his fork menacingly if Wales' hand happened to venture too close to any dish containing even the smallest trace of meat, so Wales was forced to content himself solely with the salad, which Scotland had pushed to one side at the very start of their meal and thenceforth studiously ignored.

Perhaps reassured by Wales' earlier promise that Scotland's diminutive state was bound to be of very short duration, France seemed willing to be charmed by it again. He sat at the head of the table, his chin propped on one hand, and, whenever Scotland stopped shovelling food in his mouth for long enough to shoot him a gappy grin, he gave him a delighted one in return.

"Even though I've been here for hours, he hasn't once spoken to me," France observed as Scotland pounced like a starving wolf upon the chocolate cake Wales had been hoping to save for pudding after his Sunday roast. "Or even attempted to."

"He's been just the same with me," Wales said. "I've tried English, Welsh, _Gàidhlig_ and _Gaeilge_, but he doesn't even seem to understand anything I'm saying, never mind replying to it."

"And I've tried French and Breton, with the same results."

"I suspect we might fare better with Cumbric, but neither _Lloegr_ nor I can speak a word of it nowadays."

"Was he late to start talking, like _Nord_?"

Wales remembered Scotland – and all of his prior incarnations – being quiet as a child, bordering on taciturn, but at no point being incapable of speech. He shook his head.

"It _is_ odd," France said, and he seemed poised to add more, but the sound of the doorbell ringing seemingly caused him to lose his train of thought.

Wales remained seated for a moment, hoping that he might recollect himself continue, but his hesitation only served earn him a puzzled look from France and annoy his visitor, judging by the second sounding of his doorbell, which was decidedly sharper and more prolonged than the last.

Wales strove to keep his own annoyance at the disruption to their conversation in check, but though he took care to soften his posture and plaster a welcoming smile on his face, Ireland saw straight through his attempts immediately, and winced sympathetically at him the instant he opened the door to her.

"Jesus, it's that bad? Good thing I came prepared, then," she said, patting the bulging bag slung over her shoulder. Given the size and shape of its many protuberances, and the faint sulphurous smell that drifts up from the fabric, Wales presumed it was filled with her own personal tomes of spells and other magical accoutrements. "Come on, let's take a look at him."


End file.
